Royce’s ears perked up in interest. He closed the book, as if trying to decide whether or not to give Stephen his attention.

“You see, I’d like to make a copy of the design to learn what it means,” Stephen continued. “But it’s on the back of my neck, and I cannot see it properly. Would you hold a mirror for me?”

“I’m busy,” Royce argued.

Stephen was never one to turn away from a challenge. If it meant using his wits to convince the lad, so be it. He was counting on the child’s natural curiosity.

First, he rang for Farnsworth and ordered two mirrors. Royce had not moved but was now studying a pair of lovers engaged in a spread-eagle position. Stephen resisted the urge to comment.

When Farnsworth returned, he carried a covered silver platter, along with the mirrors. “My lord, Lady Whitmore sent this.” He set the platter upon the desk.

Now what was Emily up to? Stephen lifted the cover and found a plate neatly covered with slices of pound cake. Atop the cake rested luscious strawberry halves, drenched in sweet cream.

He tasted the dessert, savoring its sweetness. Whether it was an apology or a bribe, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. He did know that she enjoyed baking, and it had taken time and care to make this.

It tasted all the sweeter because of it.

He offered some to Royce, who used his bare fingers to soak a piece of cake in cream. “Mmm…” the boy sighed. With strawberry streaks upon his lips, he wiped his hands upon his trousers and returned to his book.

After he’d finished the dessert, Stephen set the plate aside. He’d have to thank Emily for it later, and that was something he anticipated with pleasure.

He balanced the mirror against a stack of books on the side of his desk. Then he loosened his shirt, placing the mirror between his knees to see the design more clearly.

“I wonder if this tattoo has any meaning,” he mused out loud.

Royce merely licked his finger and turned the page.

“Of course, I’m certain your father never told you what it was. Such a thing would be quite a secret.”

Royce shifted in his seat but said nothing.

Stephen traced the design, dipping his pen into the inkwell. The swirling black symbols resembled an ancient language. Quentin had thought it might be Sanskrit.

“Did your father ever travel to the Orient?” Stephen asked.

“Yes.” Royce turned the book over, holding it up to the light. “And I’m going to travel to India someday.”

“Why India?”

“Our butler was from India. Anant was his name. He used to tell me stories of battles between his people and ours. He once slit a man’s belly with his sword.”

“Did he, now?”

“Someday, I shall learn how to slit a man’s belly.”